


Path of the White Owl

by Merawlee



Series: Temperance Chronicles [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, Assassins/Rogues, Blood and Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Historical Character(s) - Freeform, Historical References, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Slavery, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merawlee/pseuds/Merawlee
Summary: After successfully escaping England, Temperance finds herself in America and becomes the initiate of an old assassin rogue known only as Bernard. In the old settlement of Davenport, she is taught the ways of the assassins while slowly coming to grips with what happened to her. The ghosts of her past, though, are never far away, her cousin's shadow ever present.Amidst the early Civil War, she will find herself having to make a stand, one in which her assassin's blood will clash with her still Templar mindset.





	1. A New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is the continuity of Temperance's journey and though it is set into the Assassin's Creed universe, it reads slightly more as an original story making use of original characters and some historical ones.

_Davenport, United States, January 1861_  
  
Bernard Tehawehron was harnessing the horses to the sled, the coldness of the early morning combined with the tall sails he could see in the distance making him work quickly despite the fact he knew he had ample time to reach the bay his house overlooked. The Soaring Lark was early though he was not about to complain since he needed the supply it brought. Any reasons not to have to go to Boston or even New York were good enough for him. It was not because of his age since he was still as spry at fifty-four as he had been in his early thirties. No it was the fact he could not pass as a white man, nor did he ever want to honestly. He was more than proud of his heritage.

Born of a half-breed and a white woman, Bernard looked too much like his father right down to the dark hair, copper skin, black eyes, high cheekbones, and lack of facial hair. No matter the fact the northern states were against slavery, no matter their lofty eloquent talks, non-whites were still treated much differently. He was not a confrontational man, much preferring the solitude he had found in the abandoned settlement so whenever he could spare himself a trip to a city, he more than gladly took it.

After checking that the bundles of tanned skin and furs he traded in exchange for the ship’s detour were in the sled, he lifted himself on the driver’s seat, took the reins, and whistled softly to the horses. Despite the recent snowfall, the sled made good time down and around to the bay, The Soaring Lark slowly reaching the wharf just as he stopped the horses, a few crewmen already on it to moor the ship.

Bernard would have offered to help them but knew the offer would have been politely refused. They did not trust their ship to a landlubber such as himself. Instead, he jumped down from the sled and patted the necks of his horses while waiting for the plank to be lowered. Only once the ship was docked and the plank fully lowered did Captain Casey Haggard walked down. That was strange since the man usually was off his ship before its sails were down. He grew weary. Casey was also smiling amiably. The man never smiled.

He had met the privateer-turned-trader more than ten years ago during a dark night in New York. He had been stalking a murderer not realizing the man had had accomplices. No sooner had he stabbed the killer that he had found himself surrounded. It had not been anything he could not have dealt with but a man had jumped into the fray, this one’s sabre as deadly as Bernard’s hidden blades.

“Well met, assassin,” the man had said with a smirk. It had been the beginning of a strange friendship based on mutual respect and so far neither had truly imposed anything on the other one until this very day.

Bernard crossed his arms over his still powerful chest, his impassive face unreadable when he noticed the child dutifully following the man, a long sabre held tightly against this one’s chest. Casey more than knew he took no initiates. After all, he was not part of the Brotherhood. His younger brother was the Master Assassin, not him. He was simply an old assassin wanting to spend the rest of his days in peace at Davenport.

“Now don’t give me that look! At least wait until I explain!” the captain said putting a hand on the youth’s shoulder or at least tried to since this one shied away from his touch. Bernard scrutinized the child who was looking at anything but him. It was obviously a girl but for some reasons she was dressed like a boy, the clothes obviously not adapted to the harsh winter found in this part of the United States.

“Come here, child,” he said gruffly, the girl briefly lifting her gaze, the terror found in it making him turn thunderous eyes toward Casey who quickly lifted his hands in a pacifying manner at seeing him flex his left wrist.

“Not me!” he almost shouted. He took a deep calming breath.

“Child, do come here,” he said once more though in a softer tone of voice, the girl slowly making her way to where he stood. It was hard to gauge her age dressed as she was but her complexion was clear denoting a healthy lifestyle despite the look of recovering sickness he could notice in the hollowness of her cheeks. One thing that bothered him was the sabre she was holding on to so tightly. He decided to keep his own counsel for the moment knowing answers usually came with time. “Good, now get into the sled and under the furs before you freeze to death.” She gave him another fearful look but did as he told. He had to refrain from smiling when he heard soft chirps of pleasure coming from under the bundles of furs. He turned his attention back to Casey. “Now explain.”

“It’s a bit of a long story which would be best told in the warmth of your house with a good pint of ale. I’ll just say this. She was running away from Templars,” the man stopped and waited for him to react. His face remained impassive making the captain sigh in defeat. “Now I insist you keep the skins and the furs ‘cause she’ll need clothes other than the ones she’s got on her back.”

Bernard slowly cocked an eyebrow. Casey was not in the habit of turning down a good trade especially not when it was in his favour. He gazed pensively at the quivering mound of furs. There was more about this girl than simply being pursued by Templars. Unless those of the British Rite were different, they usually did not go after children. He looked back at the captain and simply nodded, the man looking relieved.

“Let’s get that cargo off, boys! But be careful not to put any crates on the furs!” this one shouted, his men unloaded the many crates he had ordered. Most were manufactured goods he could use to bring the house back into shape, a few containing the tea he had developed a taste for while the smaller ones were specific books Casey usually found for him.

He got back in the driver’s seat and whistled to his horses, Casey lithely jumping on the sled to casually sit on the crates. The trip back up from the bay was done in such a silence that Bernard thought the girl had fallen asleep but when they finally arrived, Casey already busy unloading the crates, he peaked inside the sled. Large grey eyes gazed back at him. He had no inkling as to the raising of a child, even less when said child was a girl. He was an old man living alone. It was not seeming to have a young girl live with him. Looking at her as he was, he frowned when he saw her eyes become sharply focused and yet with a faraway look to them. He knew that gaze well having seen it in his younger brother often enough. That child had the sight!

“You are green. Are you an assassin?” she asked her head peeking out of the furs, and though there was still fear in her eyes, it was less present as before.

“Yes, child, I am. Get inside the house where it’s warm,” he simply answered. There was a moment in which the poor child seemed hopelessly tangled but soon jumped down the sled. As she did so, something caught his eyes, an old medallion swinging from her neck. Bernard gasped for he recognized it well, a sketch of it found in one of his great-grandfather’s diaries.

“Aye, the lass is something I’d never thought I’d see,” he heard Casey chuckle. He could only wonder where the man had found a Caribbean Assassin, especially one with such a cultivated British accent.  
  
* * *  
  
Although she wanted to remain on her guard, Temperance nevertheless entered the house and quickly found the front parlour, a warm fire crackling in the fireplace. She never would have thought such cold places existed, the warmth she had found under the piles of soft furs quickly having dissipated in the icy wind. She now was in a strange land with an even stranger man. Bernard, as Captain Haggard called him, was primitive looking with his clothes made of furs, braided black hair, dark impenetrable eyes and reddish complexion. Still, he was an assassin like Ethan Frye and George Westhouse and as such could probably be trusted.

Thinking about the assassins who had valiantly tried to help her never failed to make Temperance feel wretched. She had been so relieved to be saved that she had not thought of them at the moment. Throughout the voyage, she had kept wondering if they were still searching for her or worst, if they had been killed. She had even tentatively asked the captain to bring her back but he had been adamant. To all concerned, she was dead, drowned in the murky waters of the Thames. It had been the only way for her to truly disappear. She had not confided in him who so had pursued her but, after waking up screaming from nightmares on her first night aboard the ship, he had probably deduced part of the truth. He had said nothing though he had hung a hammock right outside his cabin, and more than once had been there when she woken up in terror, not saying anything, not even trying to comfort her, just standing near letting her know he was there protecting her.

She had remained in the cabin throughout the voyage, her body slowly recovering from the sickness of the lungs much helped by the disgusting concoctions the ship’s cook had forced her to swallow. She had passed the time by looking at the various maps and challenging herself in finding faster routes to the diverse ports in the known world, Captain Haggard swearing in awe when he had discovered her scribbled changes.

“Pirate’s blood indeed,” he had mumbled while transcribing her notes and giving them to Vahid, his Quartermaster, to be applied.

Hearing the front door open, Temperance mentally shook herself and sat down on the floor near enough the fireplace to be warm yet far enough from the comfortable looking armchairs so her filthy clothes could not dirty them. She was still holding on to Olivier’s sword as if it was a lifeline of some sort.

“I’m really going to have to make you some appropriate clothes but that can wait until later on after a good long warm bath,” the man named Bernard said putting down a small crate against the farthest wall, Captain Haggard entering the parlour with a second crate putting it beside the other one before walking out once more. “You’re safe here, child. You can at least put it on the floor beside you.”

“Good luck with that. The lass has been hugging that thing since we left London,” the captain said walking back in the parlour though this time his arms were full of the soft furs Temperance had blissfully cocooned herself in during the sled ride.

“One does not talk about a person as if said person is not there, Casey,” the tall copper-skinned man said, the captain snorting with a slight roll of his eyes though he did give her a roguish wink. “Do you have a name, child?” She slowly put Olivier’s sword on the floor beside her and drew her knees up to her chest.

“Temperance, milord,” she answered, the man chuckling, the deepness of his laugh washing over her. She strangely felt comforted by it.

“I’m no ‘milord’, child. I’m called Bernard though I am also known by my Kanien’keha’s name, my native name which is Tehawehron bestowed upon my birth by my father. I am, what many would call, a half-breed, in part white, in part Indian.” Temperance had received an extensive education into British Politics and as such was more than knowledgeable with the colonies so she was a bit perplexed by his answer.

“I am sorry but this is not India so how can you be an Indian?” she asked making Bernard laugh once more, Captain Haggard chuckling while shaking his head.

“She’s a smart one, that lass. Although we left London earlier, we arrived faster thanks to her rerouting calculations. I’ll be able to shave many days of voyage thanks to her,” this one said.

“Ah child, you’re quite right. I’m not from India. It’s merely the name white people gave mine when they arrived here thinking they had discovered India. But history lessons are for another day and though there’s much to discuss, I do believe something warm to drink would be called for. Join us for tea or would you prefer some ale, Casey?” Temperance made to get up to help Bernard but this one shook his head. “No, stay by the fire.”

She was left alone in the parlour with Captain Haggard who was sitting forward on the armchair, his forearms resting on his thighs. He was contemplating the fire for a long time before turning his hazel eyes to her.

“Bernard’ll look after you, lass. Like he said, you’re safe here… at least from Templars but there’s many wild animals around so be sure to always be on your guard. I can’t believe I’m going to say this but I’ll probably be back around these parts in a year or two. If you feel the need to have the winds take you to sea, you’ll have a place in my crew.”

Temperance did not know what to say so she kept her silence. If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that, though she had stayed in the cabin, she had quickly found what they called her sea-legs in a matter of days. It had been as if she had been born to sail the sea but had been living on land for too long. Ever since she had heard about the Caribbean, she had a deep desire to go there as if something was calling her back home.  
  
* * *  
  
Bernard came back in the parlour with two steaming cups of tea, a pint of ale for Casey and an old leather-bound book under his arm. He put the tray on the small table, the girl inching closer to take the cup he was offering her. Like a small injured bird, she was hesitant in coming too close to him but he was nothing if not a patient man. If Temperance was to become his initiate she would have to learn to trust him completely. That meant confiding things which were most probably very painful for her if the total lack of innocence in her grey eyes was any indication. She could not be much older than twelve or thirteen but there was a sort of beauty about her, one he knew many unscrupulous men would more than gladly grasp as their own despite her young age. Patience and empathy would be the way to go. Still, there were some questions he really wanted to ask her.

“Child, about your medallion. Where did you get it?” he asked, the girl’s fingers delicately touching the necklace that was resting on her chest.

“It was my mother’s for as long as I could remember. She disappeared when I was six years of age but George… a friend of my mother and an assassin found the medallion and gave it to me on the day I was supposed to sail for India with him to escape London,” she replied truthfully. By his friend’s complete stillness Bernard realized this one had not known half of what she had just said. He calmly took a sip of tea, his gaze on the fire and not on the girl.

“Do you know what it represents?”

“Captain Haggard told me it was something the Caribbean Assassins wore.” He nodded and opened the diary to the sketch before offering it to her. She took it in her small delicate hands and avidly gazed at it. “It is the same.” Once more he nodded. He could feel the trepidation emanating from Casey so he knew there was more to it, more to the girl.

“Is it inscribed at the back?” he asked. For some reasons, his eyes went to the tomahawk resting upon the fireplace mantel under the family portrait of Achilles Davenport.

“Yes. The words Royal Phoenix and the initials M.R underneath it.” His breath left his lungs in a reversed gasp, Casey chuckling softly.

“Told you, old man,” this one whispered. Bernard did not believe in coincidences since everything was connected in a way or another. If he had had doubts about taking on the girl as an initiate, they had quite flew on the wings of eagles. He briefly closed his eyes and took a deep grounding breath.

“If you turn the page you will see a sketch of a woman. Her name was Mary Reid. She was a pirate and an assassin during the early 18th century. The one who drew her likeness was a friend of hers, a fellow pirate and assassin, Edward Kenway, my great-grandfather.” He got up and put one knee in front of the girl. She eyed him uncertainly though he made no move to touch her, to get closer to her. Instead, he gave her a gentle smile. “It’s fitting that Mary was the one to introduce Edward to the Brotherhood and now here we are, the role reversed with us their descendants. Welcome to Davenport, young one. This is your home now,” he added in a whisper.


	2. The Blood of an Assassin

  
Temperance’s first week in Davenport was spent in learning how to sew and cook, two fundamental skills Bernard had proclaimed she was lacking. It seemed that in the United States, things she had been taught were not as prized as what her mentor called ‘essential survival abilities’. Taking apart engines with her eyes closed was not as useful as baking an apple pie. America was a strange land, truly.

So far he had not asked her anything about her previous life other than her age though, like Captain Haggard, he had rushed in her room on the first night when she had woken up screaming. He had not said a word, merely put some fragrant herbs in her bedchamber’s fireplace. She still had nightmares but not every night and those free of them were the most peaceful she had had in a long time.

Looking outside the window, she blew a strand of hair which had escaped her two braids. The kitchen was warm and quite fragrant. She had decided to bake a loaf of wheat bread while Bernard was out checking his traps. She still had to mend her tweed trousers but ever since slipping into the soft buckskin breeches her mentor had made for her, she had been putting that mending to the bottom of the sewing basket. Her white shirt was now neatly patched and worn over her breeches, a beautiful weaved belt cinching it tight around her waist. Her newly made boots the old assassin called ‘winter moccasins’ completely her ensemble. He had chuckled saying she was turning into quite a young frontier girl. She was, amazingly enough, adapting to her new life. It was strangely freeing, the boundaries of English society nonexistent in the isolated Davenport. She did have moments of doubts, especially when her thoughts turned to the assassins back in England.

“If they are Master Assassins then you can be certain they’ve survived. I know you think you should somehow communicate with them but I don’t think that’s a good idea. They think you dead and that, dear child, is the greatest protection you can ever have. Best you stay dead until you’re old enough to know what you want to do,” Bernard had told her.

As always he knew just what to say to make her feel better. Her trust in him was now such that she did not shrink from him. She still carried Olivier’s sword everywhere she went, leaving it where she could quickly retrieve it. Bernard had never commented about it. She wondered if he had noticed the small Templar cross engraved at the base of the upper hook of its scabbard. She was not trying to hide her past; she just did not know how to bring the subject of her former education to him, of how she had been raised as a Templar. She did not think he would kick her out but there was a deep hatred between the Brotherhood and the Templar Order.

Suddenly smelling a burnt odour, she shook herself mentally and took out the charred loaf of bread from the oven with a hiss. Bernard kept telling her she needed to pay more attention when she was cooking, but being alone as she was when he went hunting, it was hard to simply not go wherever her thoughts led her. She had asked him to let her tag along. He had refused telling her everything would come in time and to not be so impatient. He was big on patience.

Hearing the neigh of horses, she walked to the kitchen door. Bernard had come back home earlier. Her hand froze on the door handle. He had left on foot, though. Her gaze darted toward Olivier’s sword while hushed male voices could be heard outside. She was totally alone in the house. Akin a forceful gale, the familiar terror descended upon her mind and dug its claws deeply. She slowly backed away, tiny panicked whimpers escaping her tightly closed lips. She had just enough time to grab the sword when the door was violently kicked open.

“Well now! I thought with the old man gone we could find something useful to steal but we didn’t know he was hiding such a tasty morsel a you!”

There were five of them, tall, brawny, dirty, and looking at her in a way that made Temperance sick to her stomach. She turned and tried to run deeper in the house but was grabbed by the waist and pulled her off her feet. Her mind dropped her back into a very dark place. The last thing she heard before being swept away by painful memories was a loud scream of pure fear.  
  
* * *  
  
Bernard took the dead hare and replaced the trap; his mind turned toward his young initiate. Though she still had not talked about her previous life, the way she had screamed that first night had been a clear indication that whatever had happened had been very traumatic. He had not known what else to do but burn some soothing herbs whenever she went to bed. So far it seemed to be working. She was less prone to having nightmares. Nevertheless the sabre she still carried everywhere with her remained a barrier. He knew she was an assassin, yet she held onto a Templar’s sword as if it was the most important thing in her life. When taking into consideration the fact she had been running away from the Order, it made no sense to him, at least not yet. He was a very patient man but even he needed answers to the many questions he had. He would not be able to train her correctly without knowing some aspects of her life in England.

He knew she was highborn, her poise and sophisticated speech much too natural to be feigned. She also had a keen intellect despite being completely clueless as to the most basic of skills like cooking and sewing to name but a few. She could easily debate about current British affairs, was fluent in French, could do advanced calculations, and had actually shown him how to repair one of his wagon’s wheels in such a way it would probably never break again. In short, young Temperance was still a total mystery to Bernard after a week of discreetly observing her. He had always prided himself on being able to figure out people simply by observing them and their behaviours as he did animals. His initiate was making him doubt his fabled skill. It was that uncertainty about her that had made Bernard decide to concentrate on teaching her basic chores before moving on to true training. There would be enough time for that later on.

Stringing the three hares he had found in his traps, he slowly made his way back to the house. Hopefully it was still standing and not burned out. Temperance had a habit of getting lost in her mind, not something an assassin should ever do since they never knew when and where the next attack would come from. Bernard had learnt that lesson a long time ago and still had the scars on his chest to prove it when he had disregarded the signs and had been taken by surprise by a bear. Ever since then, he never ignored even the smallest of signs so he knew something was wrong when he noticed the fresh horses’ tracks leading to the house. Five in total. Temperance was alone in the house and he had no idea if she could defend herself because he had stupidly waited to train her!

He threw the hares in the snow and agilely climbed the nearest tree. He would be faster off the ground than trying to run through the deep snow. For once in his long life Bernard felt true fear. Temperance had come to him to be protected, and he had completely failed to do so.

Though it was faster to so move in the trees, Bernard still felt like it took him much too long to reach his house, the sudden scream that echoed in the forest both chilling his blood and making it burn in rage. His initiate was being attacked! He was off the last tree, onto the roof of his house and down the other side as quickly and as silently as any mountain lion, his dagger already in his hand.

Looking down and seeing one man drag an unresisting Temperance outside toward the awaiting thugs, he let out a war cry while jumping down from the roof, his long braid whipping the air behind him. He landed on one man, his hidden blade piercing the throat right at the jugular. His dagger flew and killed a second man. Unfortunately the invaders were frontiersmen and as such were not without brawling knowledge; he was also not as young as he used to be. One man rammed into him like a bull. He heard another scream though this time it was one of outright fury. There was a glint, the sound of metal against metal, and then a high yelp of agony. After a few seconds of fighting with his opponent, Bernard finally opted to simply break this one’s neck.

He turned and though he was a hardened assassin, the sight meeting his eyes made him shiver slightly. The man that had been holding Temperance was howling shrilly on the ground, the blood pouring from between his legs staining the snow a deep red. She had impaled him in the crotch with her sabre. Death would soon claim him. As for her, she was facing the last thug, a chilling look on her face.

He was too far to do anything. The man lifted his gun but miscalculated his aim, the bullet ricocheting on the sabre. The blade broke in two. Temperance did not seem to realize it for she rushed at the man, her attack utterly silent. She gracefully jumped in the air, her form as perfect as any assassins. One hand grabbed the man’s right shoulder, her feet firmly planted on his chest. The broken blade pierced the soft throat, blood gushing from the ragged wound. She fell down on top of the now dead man and stabbed him over and over again, her silence chilling while tears trickled down her bloodstained cheeks. Finally going to her, he gently grabbed her left arm to stop her from plunging the blade once more.

“Hush child, it’s over,” he whispered pulling her off the man and into his embrace totally unmindful of the fact she was covered in blood. “It’s all over.” The broken blade fell in the snow, Temperance’s arms going around his waist, her agonized sobs echoing in the now stillness of Davenport.  
  
* * *  
  
Bernard held her while she cried, cried the loss of Olivier’s sword, cried the loss of her innocence, cried for having killed. Through it all he held her, his calm silence comforting her. Slowly, Temperance got herself under control though she now felt a strange hole as if Olivier had been killed a second time. She looked at the two broken pieces and felt like crying all over again but, instead, she took a deep breath taking strength from her mentor’s calm presence.

“Now child, you’ll go back inside, take those clothes off and have a good warm bath while I take care of cleaning the backyard,” he told her. She wanted to argue, to say she would help him with the disposal of the bodies but she could not even look a them without wanting to throw up. As if knowing her thoughts, he lightly grasped her shoulders, his dark eyes holding nothing but empathy and wisdom. “Each assassin deals with his or her first kill differently. Take a bath to cleanse yourself and look deep inside your heart and soul. You’ll find your own answer. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”

Temperance could do nothing but nod and slowly make her way back inside the house, the smell of burnt bread still permeating the kitchen. It now seemed like a lifetime ago. For the first time since escaping London, she was without Olivier’s sword. She felt strangely disconnected, uprooted as if her life had become unravelled. Needing to occupy herself to keep the dark mood away, she went through the motions of pumping water, heating it and pouring it into the metal bathtub. The task was mind numbing which was exactly what she needed. Once the tub was finally filled, she peeled her clothes off herself and got in, her eyes closing in bliss at the warmth of the water.

She did not want to think about what had happened in the courtyard but her mind, treacherous as it was, did not relent. Olivier had not taught her such skills and yet she had known exactly where to strike, where to plunge the broken blade to kill instantly. It had been completely intuitive. Furthermore, though she was right-handed with the sword, she had held it with her left one as if it had been an extension of her arm. She had killed, had drew blood but knew she would do it again if it ever came to that.

Her hand lightly grasped her medallion. What she had done had been right. Those men had deserved to die. They would have committed crimes, had probably done so in the past. With that realization, she scrubbed herself clean, and then used the bathwater to wash her bloodstained clothes before hanging them near the still warm wood-stove. She slipped on the strange fringed buckskin dress Bernard had given her. The last thing she did was quickly comb her still wet hair while preparing a kettle of tea. They would both need the hot drink.

Bernard was already sitting in his usual armchair when she entered the parlour. After serving the tea, she made herself comfortable on the floor by the fireplace; it had become her usual place to sit. Only the soft crackling of the fire broke the silence. She knew he was patiently waiting for her to speak. She had no idea as to what to say. Long minutes passed by, Bernard not demanding anything, not even fidgeting. He was merely gazing at the fire while drinking his tea, his face impassive. Temperance took a deep breath and turned her own gaze toward the fire.

“I was born in Crawley. My real name is Temperance Sophia Wakefield.” She stopped and drew her legs against her chest, her hand going to reach for Olivier’s sword before realizing that it had been broken. She felt the tears build up and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “My mother disappeared when I was six years old, a mental illness I had been the cause of, or so my father had told me. He himself was later killed by assassins, or so I was told. My father was a Templar as was my tutor, Olivier Montagne.”

Until then, Bernard had made no sound, simply listening to her in his peculiar way but hearing the name of her old tutor had made him turn his gaze from the fire to her with a slight hiss.

“Did you say Olivier Montagne?” he asked. Temperance slowly nodded. “Child, do you know who he is?” She shook her head. She knew he had been someone many knew, Pearl Attaway’s reaction to him coming to mind. “The Bête Noire many call him. He is an unsurpassed hunter, a great spy and a bane for us assassins. Many of our brothers and sisters fell to his blade… the same blade you have been carrying around.” There were no accusations in his words, no reprimands. At least there were yet none. She had not told him everything. “What is it, child?” he asked as always so perceptive that it was almost eerie.

“I was basically raised by Olivier and… my…” She stopped and took a shaking breath. She strove so hard not to think of him. “And my cousin. I never truly ever went out of Wakefield Manor, and the servants never interacted with me. I guess I led a very cloistered life.” Temperance wanted Bernard to know how her life had been so he would not judge her for what she was about to reveal. She could do this though she was deathly afraid of mentioning his name. “I was running away from not just any Templar. I was running away from Crawford Starrick, the Grand Master of the British Rite, my cousin and also my betrothed. That night he…” She stopped once more, her voice breaking on a whimper. “That night he killed Olivier who was trying to stop him from doing… something… to me…”  
  
* * *  
  
Bernard was out of the armchair and kneeling in front of his initiate, his arms gently pulling her against his chest. Her small body trembled like a frightened bird, her lost eyes still fixed on the fire. He now understood everything, an unprecedented rage burning deep inside of him. How he wished he could hunt Starrick down and kill him. By what he could deduce, she had been ‘raised’ by a perverted bastard who had lusted after a child and called it love. What was perhaps worst in his mind was the fact she still did not know how truly wronged she had been. It was obvious she knew nothing of the ways of man and woman; however, he did not think he was the right person to explain it to her. He was clearly out of his depth. Still, the fact she had confided in him already a big step for her. He knew that the answer as to how to guide her through her soul-wound would, eventually, come to him. All he could do was concentrate on helping her in the best manner he knew how. He would train her so that she would nevermore fear being abused in such a manner ever again.

Once her tears had been spent, he got up and offered her his hand. She took it without hesitation so he gently pulled her up on her feet. He took a slight step back and gazed at her. One of the first thing he would have to work on would be to alter her looks. Though he commended Casey in faking her death, now that he knew who she was, he could not risk her being recognized. He had no way of knowing if Starrick truly believed her to be dead. The vile man had carefully laid his web around Temperance for years before apparently snapping and, if the high level of conditioning was any indication, he was not the sort to easily let go of his prey.

“Come,” he simply said keeping his thoughts to himself for now. There was no reasons to frighten her with his speculations.

He guided her to the end of the corridor and pulled on the wall lamp, a small door opening underneath the staircase. He went down first since there was no light at the bottom of the secret cellar. “Before Achilles Davenport’s death, this house was the Colonial Brotherhood of Assassins,” he explained using his flint to light the candles, his eyes as always drawn to the assassin’s clothes his father had worn long before he had been born.

Temperance stood at the bottom of the stairs seemingly unsure until he indicated she come stand in front of him. He gently grabbed her hand as soon as she did so and took his dagger out. She did look at the blade but when her eyes lifted to gaze into his, Bernard felt blessed to see nothing but the deepest of trust.

“There are many different ceremonies, each carrying their own cultural background. Since I’m not truly part of the Brotherhood, I’ll use one I know.” As gently as he could, he cut a line in her left ring finger before doing the same to his. The cut was not deep enough to be problematic but would leave a light scar. He put his dagger back in his belt and tied their bleeding fingers together with a black leather string, an eagle’s feather hanging from one side. “Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent; the goal of the assassins is to ensure peace in all things. Hide in plain sight; be unseen. Never compromise the Brotherhood; the actions of one must never bring harm to all. These are our tenets. Nothing is true; realize that the foundations of society are fragile and that we must be the shepherds of our own civilization. Everything of permitted; understand that we are the architects of our actions and that we must live with their consequences, whether glorious or tragic. This is our creed.” Temperance’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight as they stood over the crest carved in the floor.

“Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” she whispered, Bernard slowly nodding his head with a smile.

“By our blood, we are assassins. By our bond, we are family.” Reverently, he unbound their fingers. Bernard stood straighter and gazed down at his initiate. “Tomorrow your training begins.”


	3. Saddle Up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes... it's been a long, way too long time since the last time I updated this monster of a story. I will try to post the subsequent chapters faster though there still much to revise and rewrite in later chapters.
> 
> Once more, I am very sorry for the length in between. Hopefully, by the end of this second story of Temperance, the wait will have been worth it.

  
Sitting upon a fallen tree branch, Bernard silently sighed at seeing Temperance fall once more off her ridiculously peaceful mare. They had been at it now for nine straight days and yet the girl still could not stay on the horse more than two minutes, if barely that. The frigid coldness that had descended upon Davenport was most probably not helping as was the fact he insisted she learn how to ride bareback first. At least there was an advantage in teaching her in the middle of winter, it hurt less to fall from the horse because of the snow. Granted it would have been easier for her to learn with a saddle but the chances of being bucked off a saddled horse were greatly reduced if one had mastered bareback riding.

“Bordel de merde! Donnez moi un putain de train n’importe quand!” he heard her growl while getting up for the nth time, her gloved hands brushing the snow from her breeches.

“Language, young one,” he admonished. He did not need to understand French to know that such words should never pass a young girl’s lips. Temperance speared him a quick wrathful look before trying to catch her slowly trotting mare.

Whenever it was sunny, they would train outside. Having her become tanned and her hair lightened by the natural warmth of the sun was an easy way to slightly alter her appearance even though he knew genteel young ladies did not dare get bronze-skinned. That was a commoner’s ‘flaw’, after all. Temperance was an assassin; she no longer was an aristocrat, something Bernard strove to hide. So far, the biggest obstacle to that was her speech. She was unable to lose her much too polished British accent and utterly failed at emulating the American drawl.

“One more time, Temperance. Up on the horse,” he called out. So far she was able to swing herself easily onto the mare’s back but anything above an almost standing pace and down she went. “You have to grip her flanks with your legs, child.” Bernard had the unfortunate gall to let out one chuckle, his chest getting hit by a snowball. It only made him laugh slightly louder, the sound strange to his ears. He was not a man prone to laughter. As strange as it sounded, his initiate was making him feel years younger though it was accompanied by a slight melancholy. He had never fathered a child, and she was showing him how much his life had been empty as a result of that. “Alright, it’s more than enough for today. Walk back your mare, brush her, feed her, and then meet me in front of the house.”

He had hoped Temperance would have mastered horse riding after all the practises they had done but it was far from being so. The food supply and other essentials were dwindling at a faster rate than usual since he was no longer living alone. That meant having to go to town but it was not close-by so walking was out of the question which only left going by horse. Horse riding was such a basic thing in the United States but apparently not back in the old country. Though eating them seemed to be the thing if he went by Temperance’s mumbles about all the wonderful dishes she could cook with the placid mare’s body.

He shook his head with a mental chuckle and went to wait for his initiate. As he rested his back on one of the front entrance colonial columns, the very one his father had stuck his war tomahawk in all those years ago, his eyes turned to the sled he had used the day Temperance had entered his life. It would have been the most logical alternative but the trek through the mountain pass at the far border of his land would be too difficult and dangerous, let alone take took long. The only other option was to have her sit behind him on his own steed but that would mean buying less items which would then bring the need for more trips to town. If they had not badly needed at least the most basic of supplies, Bernard would have waited until Temperance was, somewhat, able to sit still on her horse, but that was not the case. There was no choice for it, she would have to ride with him, and the sooner they left, the sooner they would be back.

He was mentally preparing a list of what they most needed when she came to join him. Once more he was amazed at how she had taken to wearing native clothing, her weapons not looking out of place on her person though the sword he had given her to replaced her old mentor’s was too big and broad for her slight body so it was strapped on her back and not her hip. He remembered the offended look she had given him when he had offered her the back scabbard for it.

“A sword is made to be worn at the hip where one can unsheathe it with speed and efficiency, not tied on the back like some sort of pointy cloak!” she had told him with a sniff. He had merely stood in silence while holding the scabbard. In the end, she had slipped it on, mumbling something in French.

Truly, she did not look like a young high-born lady. As long as she did not speak, one would believe her to be a frontierswoman. She would certainly pass for his daughter, a lie they had agreed on for both their sake. He did not want to think what the law would do to him if someone found out he was living alone with a young white girl not of his blood. Though, by the ceremony he had performed on the day he had brought her into the inner sanctum of Davenport, one could argue that his blood flowed into her veins and hers into his. So, in essence, she was his blood daughter.

“We need to check the traps,” he explained. She gave him a bright smile.

“Can we go by trees?” Her grey eyes looked at him pleadingly. If there was one aspect of assassin training she had taken like a fish in a pond, it was the knack of travelling without touching the ground. It was something to see her small lithe body agilely and gracefully jump from tree to tree. Sometimes she seemed to float in the air akin a bird. The comparison actually made his heart resonate as if the winds were trying to tell him something.

“Yes, we may,” he answered, his usually impassive face cracking into a brief smile at her squeal of happiness. She was already scaling up the house and onto its roof before he even had time to blink. He quickly followed and though he had spent most of his youth moving about through the trees, he was barely able to catch up to his young pupil before they reached the place where the hares were the most prolific.

As was becoming the norm since she had improved the traps in ways he still did not fully understand, all of them had been successful. They strung the dead wild rabbits and went back to the house, Temperance’s braids whipping the air behind her as she moved through the trees. Definitively, she had deeply rooted assassin’s instincts though with whom her ancestor had been, Bernard was not all that surprised. He already knew the Bête Noire had taught her fencing and shooting. He had conceded her mastery in these two areas in less than an hour after their first practise. She was a superb swordswoman and markswoman. As for hidden blades, she still did not have hers since there was yet much she needed to learn about the art of assassination. They, like her assassin’s garbs, would come in time. After all, she was barely thirteen years old, much too young yet.

He watched her skin and clean the hares, her dexterity with blades getting better with each passing days. Also, she did not squirm at the sight of blood and gore like most young women, far from it. Now if only Temperance could actually cook the rabbits without turning them into unrecognizable black misshapen messes. Good thing Bernard did not believe his initiate should do all the housework, not if he wanted to eat.  
  
* * *  
  
Temperance looked at the big, tall, gigantic horse pawing the snowy ground impatiently and realized she did, in fact, love her little calm mare but since the town was much too far to walk, and she still could not ride without falling after a heartbeat, her mentor had decided to have her ride with him. Honestly, she was not too sure she liked the idea. The back of that horse from hell looked dangerously far from the ground. If it was not for the fact they badly needed supplies, their larder overflowing with meat and nothing else, she would have been tempted to plead with Bernard to wait a few more days, weeks, or even better years. Anything but to get on that horse.

“Grab my hand and swing yourself behind me,” Bernard told her patiently, his hand tended toward her.

She knew he would never deliberately put her in harm’s way. Actually, ever since the attack he had been slightly overprotective even in her training until she was able to show him she was fine, or at least pretend that she was. Then and only then did he took a step back. With that knowledge, Temperance grabbed his hand and surprisingly easily lifted herself onto the horse’s back. No sooner had she wound her arms around Bernard’s waist that this one lightly kicked the horse’s flank making it go off at a slight trot.

“Just imitate my movements. You’ll soon get the feel of the horse,” she heard him say in his deep rumbling voice.

She had to admit it was easier when holding on to him and, after a while, Temperance stopped grabbing on for dear life. Growing more at ease upon the tall trotting horse, she turned her attention to the landscape. It was beautiful in a wild and untamed manner, so far different from her beloved Crawley.

Although she was surprisingly enjoying the ride, Temperance’s lower body was nevertheless starting to ache. It actually got to a point where she thought she would never be able to walk normally so much her thighs muscles were cramping. She must had moved for Bernard halted the horse and swung a leg over its neck, landing on the ground in a manner she was greatly envious of. He turned and offered her is arms which she more than gratefully accepted. Her legs were actually quivering tiredly.

“See that big rock over there? Go sit and rub your legs to warm the muscles,” he told her.

Temperance walked, if one could call her erratic leg movements that, to where he had been pointing, her poor abused lower appendages akin two long unbendable tree branches. She sat down with a soft whimper. Her backside hurt just as much. Hopefully they could do the rest of the trip by foot. Or better yet, he could leave her here to die. She was not difficult, either or would be fine with her. She had never felt this exhausted in her life, not even after the first fencing lessons with Olivier and he had been a strict taskmaster. She took her fur mittens off and started to rub her sore legs while Bernard stood beside the horse, his attention on their surroundings, casually holding the rifle he had strapped to his saddle. Outside of Davenport, threats could come in many forms, from animals to humans.

She closed her eyes and concentrated her focus. When she opened them once more, her sight flared forth washing away the colours. Slowly she looked all around herself but saw nothing that would present a danger to them, the calm green aura around Bernard the only colour she saw. She released her hold, her vision returning to normal. She had practised her control over her ability almost daily though she could not hold it for very long nor move much while using it. At least she no longer felt the pain she once had felt, the only discomfort coming from the slight pressure between her eyes.

“There is nothing in the near vicinity,” she said, Bernard nodding while slipping his rifle back in its scabbard.

“We should keep moving, child,” he told her making her groan slightly. She got up stiffly while he easily swung himself back onto the horse.

“Is it still far?” she asked while he helped her sit behind him, her muscles screaming in denial.

“We will get there faster if we go at full gallop. Hold on tight,” he warned mere seconds before the nightmarish beast went into a complete suicidal mind frame. The landscape was nothing but a blur, the horse’s muscles powerful under her agonizing bottom half. If Temperance could have broken Bernard’s ribs, she would have but her arms were not long enough to go all around him.

Not soon enough for her taste, let alone her poorly abused buttocks, Bernard slowed the infernal horse down to a trotting pace when the town came into view. Since she had travelled from London straight to Davenport, Temperance had not experienced life outside the boundaries of the homestead. So this was the first time she saw an American town. She was far from being impressed. The roads were muddy despite the cold, the sidewalks mere wooden planks by what she could see where the snow had been swept away. The houses were simple in design, also made of wood and seemingly all similarly built, the tallest building being a church with its high steeple. Her mentor had told her that it was a small town. Crawley was a small town and yet it had not look like this!

“Now listen well, child. While we’re here, try to not to talk,” Bernard told her while helping her off the horse for a second time. “This being such a small town, one where not many people pass through, your accent will stand out too much.”

Temperance nodded slightly. She could only hope he was not able to see nor sense the terror coursing through her right that instant. She had been so certain that after killing her attacker and, more importantly, confiding in her mentor, she had moved past what had happened in London. With the nightmares rescinding, she had started to feel safe. She was, after all, an assassin! Yet, here she was, trying her best not to shiver, not to whimper, not to run away and find a place to hide. Nothing much had changed since the terrifying night she had ran away from all she had known.

In silence, she followed her mentor into one of the biggest buildings found on the street, the various wares inside temporarily distracting her from her fear though it was a very short distraction. No sooner were they inside that every person present, all of them rough-looking men, turned their attention to them. Temperance inched closer to Bernard while trying not be obvious about it.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Tehawehron. Didn’t think I would until spring. Unless I’m mistaken, the groundhog saw its shadow,” the burly man behind the long wooden counter said with a gruff but seemingly friendly voice.

“Ran out of supply faster. I’ll go against that rodent and say spring will be upon us sooner than later.” That made the man bark in laughter, the others following suit.

“Between an Injun and an animal, I’d trust the Injun’s opinion on the weather. If you say spring is coming, then you can bet it’s coming! So what can I do for you?” The man’s eyes kept darting to her. She wanted nothing more than to bolt from the place but forced herself to keep calm. There was nothing threatening her in this place other than some strange men standing around doing nothing more than just look at her in curiosity. At least, that is what she tried to convince herself. Naturally, as observant as her mentor was, he had noticed the curiosity concerning her. She silently prayed that was the only thing he had discerned.

“This is my daughter. I decided to bring her with me so she knows where to come for supplies and the mail,” he simply said giving no other information, not even her name. “As for what I need, since we came with my horse and not the waggon, I’ll only take the bare minimum, mainly sugar, flour, molasses and beans.”

“Sure thing,” the owner said giving her a warm smile before gathering the supplies Bernard had requested. “There you go. That’ll be seventy-three and a half cents. Ah, before I forget, you’ve received a letter from New York.”

Temperance watched her mentor as he paid before slipping the letter inside his winter furs. She was curious as to whom would have written him a letter since he seemed more of a recluse than anything else. Granted, travel was not easy during winter so, for all she knew, he could be socially involved, a man who attended balls, business meetings and the such. A man like Crawford… The mere thought of him made her mentally rear back in panic. She had been so very careful to never think about him!

A hand lightly touched her shoulder, her mentor’s dark eyes looking at her in that particularly intense manner as if he was able to read her most inner thoughts.

“Come along, young one,” he said gently. “It’s time to go back home.” Home where it was safe, where nothing threatened her, where she could pretend that she was fine. The one obstacle between her and the blissful place the hellish horse.

They were about to walk out of the door when the shop owner suddenly and unexpectedly rushed to where she was. Her heartbeat skyrocketed, a whimper of fear trying to break past her tightly closed lips. She felt her body start to tremble and somehow knew she would be swept back into the nightmare of that night back in London.

“Here, take it,” the man said offering her a brightly wrapped piece of candy. “Free of charge. Always pays to make a good first impression on a future client.” Temperance looked at the hand holding the sweet but all she could think of was the feel of fingers pinning her arms over her head and pushing her nightgown up. She knew she should take the candy, that she should appear as if the mere thought of coming close enough to touch him did not make her want to vomit.

Her hand started to lift, the fingers shaking so badly she knew she would not be able to hide it but her mentor stepped between her and the man, his calm presence a soothing balm to her terrified state of mind.

“She’s very shy,” he explained. “Since the death of her mother, she has not stepped outside Davenport.”

“Oh that’s completely understandable!” the shop owner quickly replied letting Bernard take the candy. With a nod, he guided her outside where the horse was tied. She did not mind having to get back on it anymore. All she wanted was to return to the safety of Davenport.

As usual, her mentor did not push her to talk, did not comment on her strange behaviour. All he did was silently offer his hand to help her up on the horse behind him. Temperance put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his back, her eyes closed against the tears that were burning behind her eyelids.

She had been so very sure she had started to forget what had happened. And yet here she was, the very first day out of Davenport and she was right back to how she had been upon waking up in Ford Bradley’s house. She would have to make sure to steel herself better in the future.

Throughout the trek back home, Temperance concentrated on pushing what had happened to her as deep down in her mind as she could, and resolved to go about as if it had never happened. After all, if she pretended hard enough, she would perhaps start to believe it for real this time around.  
  
* * *  
  
The hour had grown late, the fire slowly burning itself out in the fireplace, the only sound coming from the crackling of the logs. Temperance had sought her bed not long after they had finished their supper. She had valiantly tried to hide how very terrorized she had been in town, her gaze not meeting his even after they had returned home. He shook his head slightly. How could she not realize how her fear had been palpable to one as observant as he was?

He had stupidly thought she had started to get past her ordeal at the hands of her cousin. It had been wishful thinking on his part. Naturally, one could argue that she had merely been afraid to be out and about after been safely tucked away in Davenport but for the fact her nightmares were not only back but as powerful as the early days of her new life here. His hands closed tightly as if he held Starrick’s neck in them. No, going to town had triggered the poisonous memories of her trauma, and unless something was done about it, it would continue to fester under the surface.

He was a good enough healer but the soul-wound Temperance bled from, he had no remedy for. What she needed was a woman’s guidance, someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone who would understand how best to help her. He certainly could not no matter how he wished otherwise. There was someone who would, perhaps, guide him in this endeavour. In normal circumstances, he would never go to her for advice; he had even been content in staying well out of her life for years, something that was more than reciprocal. But for his initiate he would brave hell itself, and knocking on Janna Meyer’s door after all those years came pretty close to it.

He slowly got up and stoked the fire. As he settled himself back in his armchair, his eyes turned to the small table where he had thrown the letter after reading it. It was no mere coincidence that on the very day he realized how still wounded his initiate was that he would receive a letter from one of his biggest trade clients. Like always, the winds were guiding him in a certain direction. Bernard had come to understand through the years not to fight the path they were trying to push him on, and right now they were blowing in the direction of New York.

He was not looking forward to travelling to the great city, but this time he simply could not find excuses to go no farther than Boston. Only in New York would he find help for Temperance and, at the same time, deal with the miserly merchant who now tried to weasel out on their trade agreement. Furthermore, the bookstores in the city would most probably have some books on engineering and machines or other such contraptions his initiate craved for. It would be his way to reward her for all the efforts she had made since she had arrived.

Bernard closed his eyes with a sigh. There was something about the trip that was nonetheless bothering him and that was the news of unrest in the southern states. Where there was civil dissension, there was almost always Templars involved. The last thing he wanted was to have them anywhere near Temperance. Granted, since his father’s time as an assassin, the Order had, for the most part, been laying low but he was not fool enough to believe they had cut their loss and moved out of the United States, far from it. No, they were lurking around whispering words of strife and lighting the fires of discord. Still, there was nothing to be done for now other than remain vigilant.

Screams broke the stillness of the evening. It was the third time Temperance woke up from the nightmare. With a swiftness that belied his age, Bernard rushed out of the parlour, up the stairs and into his initiate’s bedroom. As silent as ever, he sprinkled fresh herbs into her fireplace before sitting on the chaise tucked under the window, simply letting her know he was there watching over her. He stayed where he was for the remainder of the night, keeping a vigil over her sleep. They would go to New York as soon as the weather permitted it. No matter what, he would protect her!


	4. A Harsh Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, there will be times when a certain word is used to describe black people. Believe me, I do not like using it but to keep the story as historically accurate as I can, I find myself unwilling to do otherwise. I am sorry for any sort of trigger this might entail and hope you can understand the reason why I am using it.

  
“Would it not be easier to just use the rifle?” Temperance asked making sure to keep her voice low enough not to spook their prey while resisting the urge to swat at the bloodthirsty bugs buzzing around her face. With the coming of warmer climate and the melting of the snow, the flying buggers had descended upon Davenport and seemingly craved but one thing, her British blood which they seemed to find very palatable. For some reason, they did not bother much Bernard. It was completely unfair!

“If you use a rifle, you kill one but the others get spooked by the noise and escape. If you use a bow…” Her mentor lifted his bow and rapidly shot three arrows one after another. “You’ll be able to kill more than just the one. Naturally, you have to be able to not only hit the target but to shoot quickly.” He gave her his bow and pointed to another deer in the distance. “Just do as we practised. Remember to control your breathing and take the winds into consideration. It’s just like shooting a pistol but with a lesser recoil.”

She nocked her arrow, concentrated on the part of the deer that would achieve almost instant death. Her sight mired straight to that point, she pulled the bowstring taut, the knuckles of her right hand brushing against her cheek. Just before she was about to let her arrow fly, Bernard let out a shrill yell, the deer lifting its head before starting to run away. She followed the movement with her entire body, mentally calculated trajectory, speed, wind drag, and finally released the bowstring hoping her quick estimations were correct. The arrow hit the deer right in the neck. It fell down on the ground in mid-run. She turned her gaze to Bernard who was gazing proudly at her.

“Congratulation on your first kill with the bow. Now, now, don’t give me that look. You’ll never learn if you practise on an unmoving target,” he said with a chuckle. Temperance resisted the urge to sniff haughtily. That had been a rotten trick to do to her. Still, she had nevertheless been able to kill her prey despite its mad dash. “Let’s put our bounty on the waggon so we can skin and clean them. The leather should be tanned and ready for our trip to New York.”

She was so happy to be going to the fabled city that she did not mind all the extra work. Actually, she had found a passion for leather working that almost matched the one she had for trains and engines. She took great pride in what she was able to create, Bernard even commenting on the quality of it.

“Once you’re done with the chores, I want you to practise your knife throwing skills,” he added after they had piled the deer in the waggon, Temperance only nodded while jumping on the seat waiting for him to join her. Since their trip to town, her mentor had increased her training and though she still had much to learn, her progress was noticeable especially in horse riding. Her body had been so sore but she had finally gotten the knack to move with the horse and not fight its gait, and now it was as if she had always rode.

The only training they had not yet started was the assassination techniques, especially those using hidden blades; however, Bernard kept refusing to teach her, saying that she was still too young and that she needed more training especially in stealth. She had hoped the trip to the city was, in part, to start learning such techniques but since her mentor had fervently tried to convince her to buy a dress and wear it in New York, she had deduced it was not going to be. Naturally, she had categorically refused. After having worn cumbersome petticoats and crinoline most of her childhood, she was not keen on ever shrugging into such contraptions again. Her buckskin shirt and breeches were much too comfortable to ever want to trade them for a stupid dress.

Bernard, most probably realizing he would not change her mind, had finally capitulated. Nevertheless, he wanted her to wear her weapons openly whenever they were going to be out on the streets and, as much as possible, to not talk. Her accent, despite her best efforts, was still much too British. It was obvious she was no American the moment she opened her mouth, something that would expose their lie about being father-daughter. She did think her mentor was slightly paranoid about the entire trip but since she did not want to be stuck with every chores he could think of, and he had a very fertile imagination when it came to them, she kept her opinion to herself.

The lurch of the waggon brought her out of her musing. She jumped out and quickly ran into the house to change into the clothes she had worn back in London, or as she now called them ‘her skinning-and-tanning gear'. She giggled softly while preparing the first deer to be skinned. Who would have thought to see Lady Wakefield’s hands dripping with blood and gore? Crawford would have gone through so much handkerchiefs to clean them up…

Her movements stopped, her knuckles turning white so tightly she held the carving knife. She would not think of him, she would not think of her life before stepping off the Soaring Lark! That life was gone, it was dead and would remain so! Temperance took a few deep breaths, reinforced the pretence she had valiantly created, and resumed her task.  
  
* * *  
  
Bernard hated taking the train. He did not like being in a situation where he had no control and that doubled for any type of machinery zooming toward its destination at an alarming speed. His initiate, though, was barely able to contain her exuberance, her eyes looking at the oncoming metallic monstrosity in adoration. He actually had to grab her mare’s bridle and force her to turn away from the train station.

“We must first see to the horses, child. Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time before the train leaves,” he patiently told her while guiding his mount toward the town’s stables where, for an exorbitant fee, they could leave their horses until they came back from the city. Temperance’s mare, which now had the most absurd and unpronounceable French name that sounded like ‘andooee’, peacefully followed behind his steed. It was a good thing since its rider was craning her neck to look behind her and not where she was steering her mount. He would never understand her passion for such things as trains. Then again, it did seem to be a good enough distraction that she had not, at least so far, reacted adversely to being among strangers, especially the male ones.

He had had a moment of dread when the budding railroad town had come into view, remembering how terrified she had been a few weeks ago on their first supply run. But other than mumbling about being unimpressed with yet another small American town, she had dutifully followed in a calm manner. That is until the train had appeared over the horizon.

Actually, since her first time outside of Davenport, Temperance had gone about as if nothing had ever happened to her, as if Starrick had never destroyed her innocence, devoting herself to her training with a zeal that would make him the envy of every mentors the Brotherhood ever had. Bernard wished he could believe she had truly moved past her trauma and found a way to heal herself but the nightmares that were still plaguing her almost nightly told him otherwise.

No wounds, especially not those of the soul, ever healed by being ignored. Instead they festered and patiently lurked for the right moment to strike. Sometimes to thoroughly cleanse a wound, one had to cut deeper to get at the root of the infection. He would not let Temperance destroy herself because she did not want to confront what had been done to her! He could only hope she would not come to hate him for secretly planning on forcing her to acknowledge her trauma but there would be more than enough time to fret about it during the voyage. There were more pressing matters to attend to before, one of them making sure his initiate did not guide her horse straight into a house by still not looking where she was going!

It took no time to get the horses settled in the town’s stables, Bernard ensuring no one would abscond with their mounts by staring the poor stable boys down, his utter silence combined with his impassive face, his much too pronounced native facial features and sheer bulk enough to scare them into making sure their two horses would be more than well watched over. Naturally the fact both he and his initiate were not only wearing native clothes but a small arsenal might have also helped.

He had barely paid the stable’s fee that Temperance ran out ahead as if afraid the damn train would leave without them. How he wished it actually would. He followed at a much sedater pace, resisting the urge to catch up with her so he could protect her from imaginary threats. He had to believe in her ability to defend herself despite everything. Granted, she was still a young girl, but she nevertheless was an assassin. Coddling her would do her a disservice and belittle all of her hard work.

If he thought about it, she was not unlike his own father when he had sought Achilles Davenport, both very young, both emotionally wounded, both needing a guiding hand. At least his own initiate was more accommodating than Ratonhnhaké:ton had been. Bernard’s lips briefly lifted in a smile at remembering the stories his father used to tell him when he had been a young child, about the War of Independence, tales of his adventures, the good and the bad ones. Perhaps one day he would in turn share them with Temperance so that, through her, a small part of his legacy might live on.

There were no trace of his initiate by the time he arrived at the station, if one could call it that. It was really nothing more than an elevated boardwalk a few feet long sitting beside a large water tank. Basically, it was one of the numerous water stops along the Eastern Railroad that also doubled as a depot. There he found his wayward pupil, the girl on her knees plainly inspecting the train wheels unmindful of the few people waiting to board who kept glancing at her as if she had completely lost her mind.

“Look at that driving wheel! Though I have designed my fair share, I have never seen a real one up close! How I wish I could see it in action!” she fairly squealed enthusiastically. He briefly closed his eyes and resisted the urge to sigh in defeat.

Bernard had expected Temperance to slip up and start to chatter despite his stern warning not to utter one little word. Still, he had hoped said slip up would have occurred in New York, not in this rapidly growing town, and especially not before they were to be stuck on a moving train with no true way to escape should something happen.

“How long do you think it will take us to reach New York?” And she just had to reveal their destination on top of everything else! He wanted to berate her and convey to her the importance in not drawing undue attention to themselves but seeing how cheerful she was, her smile almost dazzling from eagerness, he knew he would not be able to admonish her, especially not since she was not cowering in fear like the first time they had left Davenport.

“This train will only bring us to Boston where we can then transfer onto the New York, Providence and Boston Railroad which will take us to our destination,” he patiently explained, Temperance’s eyes growing wide in excitement. “If everything goes smoothly, we should get to New York around supper time.”

Seeing the conductor step off the train, Bernard lightly grabbed Temperance’s shoulder. He wished he had warned her but he had not wanted to make her more afraid than he had thought she would be. He realized now how much of a mistake it had been to leave her in the dark about the coming situation. Nevertheless, it was much too late to do anything about it. He could only pray to the winds that everything would be carried out in an uneventful manner, and hoped the sight of their weapons would be enough to deter any confrontations.

“Listen well, child,” he whispered tightly. “No matter what happens, no matter what is said, just stay silent and follow my lead.” The enthusiasm vanished from her face, a flash of terror briefly replacing it. That was enough to make him hiss coldly when the conductor pointed to him.

“You!” the man spat. “In the first car with them negroes!” He did not even nod his head but, instead, started to walk toward the very first car. It took him just a few steps to realize Temperance had not followed him like he had ordered. By the frown marring her delicate face, she did not quite like the entire situation.

“What are ‘negroes’ and why must they confine themselves to the first car? I am sure you more than realize how being so very near the locomotive would make for a very uncomfortable, let alone unbreathable, voyage,” she haughtily said. The conductor snorted contemptuously.

“Well aren’t you sounding all hoity-toity! Fresh from the old country, huh?” this one said. He seemed to study her for a long moment. Bernard did not like it one little bit. He had to resist the urge to slice the man’s throat. “You may dress like one of them savages like him but you can still board the train with the rest of the normal folks.” There was no way he would be separated from her for the entirety of the voyage!

“Normal folks?” he heard his initiate ask. He wished Temperance would realize how volatile the atmosphere was fast becoming and keep her mouth shut but it was obvious she simply did not grasp the situation.

“Yeah, white folks!” the man almost growled. “Them savages and negroes are lowly scums not fit to share the same spaces as the rest of us. It’s just too bad we still have to let them on! They should be glad and damn grateful to be allowed to travel!”

“I see. So, here ‘negro’ is the term you use to describe black people and for some reason you despise them as you do anyone that is not, as you put it, normal. In other word, white people.” His initiate pushed one braid off her shoulder before letting her hand come to rest near her pistol, the conductor’s eyes seemingly just noticing how many weapons she had on her small person. “Well, sir, I do believe I will go into the first car to be, as you so aptly put it, with my kind.”

That said, she lifted her nose in the air and regally walked toward the front of the train in a manner only a highborn could achieve. He gave the conductor one last black look before following her. He was amazed the man had not simply opted to throw them out. Then again, perhaps he had been rendered speechless at being bested by a little slip of a thirteen years old girl.

She got in without his help and if she found the car to be lacking compared to what she had probably been used to, she made no mention of it. Instead, she nodded her head to the very few black men present, all of them obviously not knowing how to react to seeing a white girl in their cramped, dirty car. He heard her hiss something in French while going to sit on a hard bench. Somehow he guessed that it was not the comfort, or lack thereof, that made her look so angry. No, it was the apparent fear emanating from the black travellers, fear she was obviously the cause of without knowing why it was so.

“I’m sorry, child, I should have explained things before we left the house,” he said in a low voice while sitting down beside her. “Though so far north it’s no longer such a problem, the country is still stained by slavery, black men and women brought here to be sold and bought akin merchandise by white people.” The more he explained, the more her furious look turned into shock, her grey eyes round in disbelief.

“Black people are being sold as if they were wares?! Selling humans… that is… I have no word for it other than it being utterly disgusting! I had no idea such things existed!” she hissed clearly upset by the entire thing.

It was apparent Starrick had never touched the subject of slavery with her. Bernard could not fathom why the man, who had obviously been the reason behind Temperance being highly educated, had not done so. After all, Templars believed that free will was a detriment to order, that it led to chaos. His initiate had been raised as a Templar so it was perplexing that this had not been part of her beliefs, quite the contrary. It also cast some questions as to what type of man Crawford Starrick was and, more importantly, what sort of Grand Master he was. The man defied everything he knew about the Order, everything his father had taught him about their long-time enemies.  
  
* * *  
  
Temperance jumped out of the coach as soon as the train came to a stop. Though the air found in New York was not as fresh as in Davenport, it was nevertheless a relief compared to breathing the smoke coming from the locomotive. Truly, forcing all people who were not white to ride right behind the engine was simply devious.

At first, she had thought it was merely the first conductor being simply a bastard but when they had transferred into the next train bound for New York, she had quickly realized it was a more than common consensus among the general population. The conductor in Boston had not even deign say a word to her mentor, pointing instead to the first coach. She had given him a withering look before making a beeline to it despite the man’s shouts that she was allowed in the ‘normal’ train coaches.

Just thinking about it now made her want to march toward where he was helping the white passengers off and use him as a target practise. A few knives in his head might change his mind on treating everyone fairly no matter the colour of their skin. Fortunately for him, Bernard briefly grabbed her shoulder, his lips almost imperceptibly lifted in a smile.

“We should make our way to the hotel,” he said while easily lifting the large leather travel bag he had brought with them. “Also, he’s not worth it. None of them are, really. The winds will take care of those of his ilk, one way or another.” Temperance gave the man one last baleful look, her mind calculating how she could throw a knife from where she was standing so it would stab him between the eyes, and turned with a soft hiss to follow her mentor out of the train station.

No sooner did they step outside that she stopped and looked around herself with a wide-eyed look. New York was nothing short of a cacophony of sounds. Despite being so near supper time, there were still flurries of activities, the streets and sidewalks crowded. The only time she had seen so many people had been in London. Nevertheless, there were some differences. Though grand, the city had a feel of ‘newness’ to it, many riding horses and dressed in something closer to what her mentor wore than the lords and dames of England. Also weapons were worn openly, something not encountered in London.

Nevertheless, her fascination quickly faded and, like when she had travelled from Crawley to London, Temperance found herself suffocating, her very being clamouring for the peaceful forest of Davenport. Her breaths started to turn into panicked gasps, her hands shaking, her heart hammering in her chest. She would have probably started to whimper had Bernard not gently poked her forehead. She instantly snapped out of her fear-induced paralysis, her gaze meeting his concerned one. She took a shaking breath and gave him a smile so as to convey the fact she was fine, or as fine as she valiantly tried to be.

She fell into step with her mentor, the people giving them a wide berth whenever they crossed their paths. Though she did not looked back, she was certain many stopped to gawk at them. She did not know if it was the clothes, the weapons, or the fact Bernard was a native, someone they viewed as a ‘savage’, accompanying a young white girl. Whatever the reason, it left a sour taste in her mouth. She had been anticipating this voyage for weeks on end but now all she wanted was to go back home.

She did not like the city despite its charming sights and she saw more than her fair share since they were going to the hotel by foot and not calling for a hansom cab or a growler. It was easy enough to guess why though. If her mentor was not welcomed to sit alongside others on a train, it stood to reason that no cab drivers would want him as a customer.

The longer they were walking, the more enraged she became. She despised the hateful looks her mentor received from complete strangers. At one point she was tempted to simply take out her pistol and point it at an overly despicable man, not to actually shoot, just to scare him halfway to his grave.

Once more, without breaking his stride, Bernard briefly grabbed her shoulder and almost imperceptibly shook his head. How he was almost always able to deduce her thoughts was uncanny. She could not understand how he was able to just withstand it all. She was ready to call it quit and the stares she received were far less hostile than those given her mentor. She tried to emulate his disregard but it was hard when all she wanted to do was scream, yell, and generally rant but it would only attract even more attention to themselves.

She slowed her pace, her hand once again inching toward her pistol. If Crawford was here, he would have dealt with them easily enough! The insidious thought made her stop dead in her tracks, her teeth raking her lower lip hard, her body trembling like a leaf. She was deaf and blind to her surroundings, her mind desperately trying not to remember her past, the creaking of the bed, her Templar cross rocking back and forth, the hot breath on her neck. She tightly closed her eyes, her silent wails reverberating in her head until her arm was grasped firmly, her body pulled back. With a scream, she opened her eyes just as a carriage ran by mere inches from where she had been.

“Young girl! Are you alright?” someone asked in a deep refined voice. She turned terror-filled eyes to the man standing behind her. Slicked back bushy hair with an elegant beard, the black man gazed at her with a slight frown. “Why oh why would a young white girl such as yourself dress like a native? Don’t you realize how people will treat you? They would have happily let you die right now.”

Her panic slowly dissipated and though she hated to be touched, especially by men, this one had nevertheless quite saved her life. But, by the angry whispers around her, she realized many did not see it in such a manner. No, what they saw was a black man touching a girl, a white girl and that, despite her native-style clothes.

“How dare that negro touch her?” she heard one man bark. In a heartbeat, her pistol was out and pointing straight at this one’s head, her aim steady. The black man put a calm hand on her pistol.

“There’s no need for such violence, young one,” he said in a soothing voice. “Please.” Slowly, she nodded before putting her pistol back in its holster. She was rewarded with a bright smile, the white teeth such a contrast to the dark skin. Her own lips lifted in an answering smile.

“Kheién:’a!” she suddenly heard Bernard shout as he ran to where they were, his arms pulling her against his chest. She knew the word he had used since he had started to teach her some Kanien'kéha, the language of his people, of his father’s people. Though they were passing as father and daughter, it was the very first time he had ever called her thusly. Temperance closed her eyes with a soft sigh and rested her head on his large comforting chest. “When I turned and didn’t see you behind me, only that carriage driving past where you had been. By the winds, I thought…” Her mentor was actually trembling. The man who was so stoic had actually been afraid. “Sir, thank you so very much.”

“No thanks owed, sir. I’m just glad I was fast enough,” the man who had saved her said.

“If there’s anything I can do to repay…”

“No need for that either, I quite assure you. And now that I know this young child is safe and sound with her father, I will take my leave. If I may, please be careful when crossing the streets in the future, young one. And I hope I haven’t offended you by what I said.” From the safety of Bernard’s arms, she gazed at the man.

“There was no offence taken, milord,” she replied before she could stop herself, the black man frowning slightly at her accent while her mentor’s stance became more rigid. Nevertheless it was too late to turn back. “I do understand what you said, I completely do. Since travelling here I have realized how such attire might do me a disservice. At the same time, I do not subscribe to such mentality, far from it. I believe, milord, that one’s skin colour should not matter nor, I might add, one’s gender.” That actually made the man chuckle.

“Such maturity for one so young! But I will be liar if your words did not give me hope for the future, child, one where, as you so eloquently said, the colour of one’s skin does not dictate his or her place in society.” With a slight nod of his head and a bright smile, the man took his leave, the people walking nearby giving him a wide berth, many spitting on the ground with a curse.

“Come on, the hotel’s not far,” Bernard whispered this time making sure she stayed well by his side.


	5. The City That Never Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the coming of April's Camp NaNoWrimo followed by an exchange project, it might take some time before I update this story. I am very sorry about this and will strive to get back to this project quicker than the last time.

  
Temperance was pacing back and forth in her hotel room. Well maybe ‘pacing’ was not the right word to describe the six steps that separated the door and the opposite wall where the sole window was to be found. The room was ridiculously small but, then again, after everything she had seen and heard this day, she had expected the hotel to categorically refuse to let them stay. Nevertheless, despite the almost hostile welcome, they had been taken to two small sparse rooms comprising of a bed, a small chest and even smaller night table holding a single gas lamp.

The hotel was not luxurious. Actually, it was closer to being less than a genteel place. And yet, even in this humbler establishment, they were expected not to mingle with the ‘normal’ guests, to take their meals in their rooms, and to generally not be seen. All of that despite having paid the normal fees. Still, like her mentor had said, it was a roof over their head with a warm, if albeit tasteless meal.

But now here she was, stuck in her room with the nightly city beckoning while Bernard was out prowling the streets. It was supposedly something he always did whenever he was staying in a city, to hunt those praying on the innocents. She had begged him to take her but he had categorically refused claiming she was still too young, too unprepared, too untrained, and most probably too tired from the voyage. She was none of these things!

She stopped pacing and stomped her foot on the floor. She was more than ready to prowl with her mentor no matter what he thought! She was not a child and would not be treated like one! Ever since she had settled in Davenport, she had gotten used to being outdoors no matter the time of day or night so to be confined in such a small space did not sit well with her at all! She would prove her mentor wrong by hunting him in turn!

Not taking a moment to actually think things through, she opened her room’s window and swung herself out.

It took her longer than she liked to scale the wall and, by the time she finally made it to the roof, her arms were burning tiredly, a feeling she had not felt in a long time. While shaking the fatigue from them, she gazed at the view the top of the hotel offered her but because of the surrounding buildings, there was not much to actually see. Still, New York could not be as confusing nor as vast as London. Temperance was sure she would be able to find Bernard and, if not, at the very least find her way back to the hotel before he could discover her gone. It would be easier than calculating the velocity and trajectory of a bullet!

With that in mind, she found the best route onto the next rooftop and continued onward until she came to a major crossroad with no nearby rooftops available. She stopped and crouched near the edge akin a featherless bird. Even at this hour there were people out and about! Did no one ever go home in this city? Concentrating, she focused her sight but found nothing peculiar in the near vicinity, only varying shades of grey and the few brighter spots where she could hide if need be as per Ethan Frye had once told her.

She shook her head to dissipate the thought. Now was not the time to think about her past! Lithely jumping onto the balcony beneath the roof where she was crouching, she hanged down from it for a heartbeat before dropping on the ground making the people nearby gasp in either fright or shock. They must not be used to seeing a young girl dressed in ‘savage’ clothes land on the sidewalk in a crouch. Her hand briefly rested on her pistol but since none made to move against her, she quickly got up, ran across the street, and turned into the first alleyway she came across.

She had to admit she had slightly underestimated the size of the city, the twisting streets and alleyways more numerous than she would have thought. She was starting to reconsider her idea and wondered if it would not be best to try and retrace her steps back to the hotel but one look around herself and Temperance realised she was hopelessly lost. Bernard would come back and find her gone from her room. She was already whimpering at the sheer amounts of chores he would make her do for such a transgression.

She aimlessly walked in and out of small streets hoping to find one that would spark some sense of recognition but everything looked the same in the nighttime. This was so not like roaming in Davenport where she knew the lay of the land like the back of her hand!

Turning yet into another street and getting further lost, she noticed an establishment that seemed to be an inn, and decided it was as good a place as any to ask for directions. No sooner had she walked through the door that she realised she had made, once again, a big mistake. This was not an inn or anything even coming close to one! The room was badly lit, the air stale with smoke, alcohol, and the pungent odour of unwashed bodies. It was enough to make her eyes water. The only people present were men, rough-looking men playing what appeared to be various games of chance. Somehow she knew no help would be forthcoming from them so the best, and safest, solution was to hightail it out of there.

Temperance did an about-face intent on quickly walking back out but someone grabbed her arm. She could have easily taken any of her weapons out and defended herself but she froze like a deer caught in her arrow’s trajectory, her heart hammering hard in her chest. Panic made her gasp for breath.

“Well look what I got! A little savage girl comin’ to have a bit o’ fun wit’ us!” the man holding her snickered.

“Come on, Thomas! Can ya see she’s ain’t a savage but a white girl?! If yer so needin’ a scratch for yer hitch just go find a bit o’ fluff!” someone in the room grumbled.

“Well if she ain’t lookin’ for a bit o’ fun, why she dressin’ like that an walkin’ ‘bout at night in Bow’ry?”

“And I’m tellin’ ye to leave her be!”

“Mind yer own business!” the man named Thomas spat while pulling her against his chest, the stench coming from him almost making her gag.

“Maybe it’s not his business but it’s mine,” a new voice said, a more cultured let alone easier to understand voice. Everyone seemed to freeze, the ambient noise dying down. “Kindly release my girl, Thomas.”

“Yer girl?! Since when ye’ve got one?”

Temperance turned her gaze to the person sitting at what looked like a long table. Compared to the others, he was well dressed, his grey suit and bowler hat impeccably clean despite the state of the place. Behind slim round glasses, his dark brown eyes gleamed with a keen intelligence, his facial features sharp, almost elegant though the tightness of his lips gave him an air of strictness.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I had to give you an account of my private life. I’ll say it but once more. Release my girl or you’ll have to find yourself someone else to fence your goods.” The stranger casually made his way to where they were. He was not overly tall, was actually barely an inch taller than her while the man holding her towered over him. Still, he did not seem threatened in the least, his stern gaze turning to look at her. His thin lips lifted in a smile. It made him look less foreboding not to mention younger. “Didn’t I ask you to wait for me back home, sweetheart?”

She slowly nodded and despite the fact she did not know him, did not even know if she could trust him, she decided it was best to follow whatever story he was concocting. Anything to get away from this dreadful place. The man holding her pushed her away with a hiss. She would have probably fallen had her rescuer not quickly grabbed her shoulders to steady her. She expected the terror to seize her at being touched but, strangely enough, there was nothing, not even a little twinge of fear.

“Bah! She ain’t worth it! Prob’ly dumb as an ass too!”

Temperance’s first instinct was to run out of there and keep on running but that would expose the lie the young man had created to save her. He released her shoulders only to gently grasp her hand, his warm fingers slipping between hers. The gesture was so reminiscent of Jacob that she almost sobbed. Instead she bit the inside of her cheek hard and tried her best to remain as stoic as her mentor. Thinking of the young assassin always brought such pain. It was best if the memory of their time together was locked away with the rest.

She looked into her rescuer’s bespectacled brown eyes and found him gazing gently at her, a smile floating at the corner of his lips. Slowly, he brought her hand up and lightly kissed it without breaking eye contact. She had had her hand kissed numerous times before coming to America but never had it affected her more than in this dark, dirty, smelling place.

“Come on. Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

She let him guide her outside and followed him through the twisting streets. She realised it was foolish to so follow a complete stranger. After all, she was not one to easily trust people. Nevertheless, there was something about the young man, something she could not explain. Perhaps it was how he held her hand. It brought her back to a time when she had been happy. At any rate, it was not like she could run away from him. Temperance was still completely lost, a stupid little lost assassin in New York. They stopped in front of a ramshackle little house.

“Don’t worry. This is just one of my hideouts. You’ll be safe here for the time being. Didn’t want to risk someone from the gambling den following us,” he said, his voice not as gruff as most men. He closed the door behind them and took the time to light a gas lamp. The interior was just as rundown as the outside but it was clean, a table with two mismatched chair the only furniture to be found, the rest of the floor piled with crates of various sizes. “And I certainly wasn’t about to let you scamper off willy-nilly into the night. You’d probably land yourself into even more trouble!” he added. The reprimand was unmistakable. “Now what’s the big idea dressing like that and gallivanting at night through Bowery?!”

She turned to face him, her hands on her waist, her stance haughty. How dare he criticise her! She had made these clothes, she loved these clothes, she was tired of people commenting on her clothes!

“First the black man and now you! What is it with this obsession about one’s wardrobe?” she asked coldly. “Frankly! You do not see me commenting on your choice of garments, now do you?” The man actually blinked in confusion.

“You’re not from here, are you?” he asked with a chuckle. In all of her indignation, Temperance had quite forgotten she did not sound like an American. “What’s your name?” She entertained the thought to simply keep her mouth closed but then he gallantly pulled out a chair for her and all of her good intentions flew away on the wings of eagles. Slowly, she sat down and watched as he straddled the other chair, his bespectacled brown eyes gazing at her patiently. For some reasons she felt her cheeks grow a bit warmer. What was wrong with her?

“Temperance,” she finally answered.

“Cute name. Now, want to tell me why you’re dressed like that? Surely you realise how badly you’ll be treated despite being white.” Annoyance made her spine stiffen.

“What is so wrong with the way I dress?” she asked with a hiss. “Unless I be mistaken, my clothes are not so very different than those worn by many frontiersmen!”

“Perhaps, little Tempest,” he replied with a chuckle. The impromptu nickname was, she had to admit, sort of winsome. “But they don’t have your face. You’re too wholesome, too fresh, and too innocent. When you combine it with the way you’re dressed… well, it’s no wonder that bastard back there found the combination interesting.” He reached over the small table and grabbed one of her braids, letting it glide through his fingers. “Can’t say I blame him.” He released it and gave her a roguish wink. “The name’s Wynert, Ned Wynert, at your service, sweet Tempest.”

“It is Temperance,” she corrected, her voice coming out almost like an undignified squeak.

“I know but I feel Tempest suits you better. Naturally I could just continue to call you sweetheart if you want.” Ned Wynert definitely was a devilish scoundrel but he had nevertheless helped her. Temperance hesitated for a moment. She truly did not want to admit she was in quite a predicament. She was after all an assassin. But the hour was growing late, her mentor soon to discover her gone.

“Mister Wynert…,” she started to say.

“Ned, just call me Ned.”

“Very well, Ned, if I may presume upon your good will, I am in a bit of a bind.” For some reasons, that made him laugh. “It is not amusing! I am really in need of help but if you are unwilling, then I will have to find someone else!” She made to get up but he quickly grabbed her hand.

“No, no! Forgive me. I was laughing because I find the way you talk completely charming, nothing more, honest. I’ll more than gladly help you so please, presume upon me to your heart’s content.” Right about now, her heart was acting strangely so she was not sure she could use it as a guide. The fact Ned’s thumb lightly grazed the side of her hand not helping. She pulled it out of his grasp and took a deep calming breath.

“I am lost,” she finally admitted. “I am new to the city, you see. I left my hotel in search of my mentor but now I do not know how to go back.”

“Your mentor?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow. “You’re quite interesting, my sweet Tempest. Which hotel are you staying at?”

“Erm…” With everything that had happened since they had boarded the train, she had not really taken notice of which hotel they were staying at. “I… I am not sure.” There was no mirth in his eyes this time.

“You’re quite lost, aren’t you?” he whispered in concern. Temperance could only nod while trying not to cry. She played a mean game of chess, she was able to debate on various academic and worldly subjects, she could even build an entire engine if she had the parts. And yet here she was, stupidly lost and feeling like a very young child. “But don’t worry. We’ll figure something out. Maybe if you described the hotel it might help me know which one it is.”

She closed her eyes and tried to visualise every details from the moment they had stepped out of the train station to when they had entered the hotel. The more they had walked the less genteel people had looked. The trees had also dwindled down to nothing, the lack of them having made her feel exposed, vulnerable. Bernard had stopped to let an amazing contraption pulled by horses drive by. It had been a long carriage holding numerous passengers akin a train coach but on wheels! She would have loved to study it further.

She remembered that her mentor had been more watchful than normal, his hand never far from his weapons, his gaze seemingly taking in their surroundings. Finally, they had crossed the street and had walked toward a corner building. At three storeys high, the hotel itself had been a perfect representation of the city. It was big, larger than anything she had yet seen in this country. Personally, she had found it an ugly building devoid of any charm, a great big rectangular box of a building.

“That sounds like the Westchester House, corner Bowery and Broome. Actually, it’s not that far away from here,” Ned said. She opened her eyes and gave him a bright smile. For some odd reasons, he cleared his throat while getting up and offered her his hand. “Come on, little Tempest. Time for you to stop being lost.”  
  
* * *  
  
“And this is the Bowery Savings Bank.” Temperance looked to the imposing building Ned was pointing to. She had followed him through the street in silence, her mind trying not to overly focus on the fact he was, yet again, holding her hand. Every time she glanced at him, at his sharp features, her heart reacted strangely. He looked more like an academic than a commoner.

Not for the first time since meeting him did she wonder who he truly was. By the reactions of the rough men back in the shady establishment, Ned Wynert was someone not to trifle with. It was perplexing, really. He did not seem that dangerous and yet no one had dared challenge him. When she had walked to the hotel with her mentor, the disapproving glares of the passersby had been palpable and that, despite Bernard’s impressive presence and visible weapons. The same could not be said with Ned. She did not feel any hostile attention, the people they walked past seemingly hurrying to get away. No matter how hard she looked, she could not discern any weapons on his person. It was baffling to say the least!

“The Bowery Theatre is down that street while your hotel is over there. See? Once you know the streets, it’s easy to find your way.”

“Did you say theatre? I have never been to the theatre,” she piped up quite adroitly changing subject. She would not admit she had become lost almost as soon as they had stepped out of his hideout.

“I’d imagine London has more than its fair share of them.” She almost told him she was from Crawley but kept her mouth well shut this time around. The less people knew where she hailed from, the better it was. “Well, if you weren’t in such a hurry to get back to your hotel room, I’d take you to it right now.” She stopped and looked at him quizzically.

“Is it not getting late for that?” That made Ned laugh, his fingers briefly tightening their grasp upon hers.

“You say the cutest things. This is New York, sweetheart, there is always something to do no matter the hour. Granted, some of them are unsavoury pastimes not meant for a young girl such as yourself.”

They resumed their walk toward the hotel. Though she knew time was not on her side, Temperance nevertheless did not really want to go back to her room. She was enjoying being in Ned’s company, feeling strangely at peace and not merely pretending to be.

“Why not tomorrow evening then? Right after supper time?” she found herself asking. She did not even know if Bernard would be prowling. The young man stopped and looked at her, his dark brown eyes making her strangely hold her breath. Slowly, he brought her hand to his lips. The kiss he laid upon it almost seared her skin.

“I’ll look forward to it. But let’s get you back to your hotel room before your mentor alerts the police,” he said. She knew her mentor would not seek policemen if he should find her gone from her room. No, he would hunt her down himself and probably throw her into the first train back home. “I’m not all too keen on getting arrested,” she heard her companion add in a soft mumble. It was a rather strange thing to say but, like her, perhaps Ned had secrets.

He guided her toward the front door but she shook her head and stopped once more.

“No, not through there. My room is locked and the key is inside,” she explained. It seemed to confuse him slightly.

“Then how do you propose to get back to your room?” he asked with a chuckle.

“The same way I left it. Through the window.”

“Huh! I didn’t know they had rooms on the ground floor. It’s not the very safe, especially not for young girls. Anyone could get inside. I mean, this is Bowery after all!” Temperance shook her head with a giggle.

“No, I’m on the second floor. I scaled the wall from my window to the roof.” She did not understand why he was looking at her with such an astonished look. It was a perfectly normal manner of going about despite New York’s lack of trees. She told him as much. It only made him laugh with a slight shake of his head.

“You are the most interesting girl I’ve ever had the chance to rescue.” He gave her somewhat of a roguish wink. “But, since I can’t follow you up to your window, I’ll take my leave here. I’ll wait for you in front of the theatre tomorrow. You do remember where it is, right?”

“Of course!” she sniffed. “It is down that way…” By his repressed chuckle, Temperance knew she was wrong. She would have huffed in indignation but he had lifted his hand, his fingers lightly playing with her right braid.

“It’s down the other way. Try not to forget. Good night, fair Tempest.”

“It is Temperance.” Her voice sounded far away, her heartbeat so loud in her ears. Her lungs emptied themselves in a breathless gasp when Ned bent his head so his lips were hovering near her left ear.

“I know,” he whispered, his hot breath strangely making her shiver as if she was cold. “Now you best get up that window before I stop being the gentleman that I’m not.”

She was curious as to what he meant by that; however, the hour was late and Bernard was probably due back any minute. That is if he was not already waiting for her in her room. That frightening thought made her turn from Ned despite wanting to prolong their time together. A short sprint ending in a jump, her hands catching the top of the ground floor window, she scaled her way back to her room while praying for it to be as mentor-less as when she had left. She was sure she heard a low whistle of amazement but was much too busy trying to find handholds to look back. It was so much easier with trees!

She could not help but breathe a sigh of relief at finding herself alone in her hotel room. She had been able to get back before Bernard. Looking out of the window she had just entered, Temperance watched Ned casually walk away. He had actually waited until she was inside before leaving. Her heart drummed hard in her chest.

With a light squeal so untypical of her, Temperance threw herself on the bed, almost breaking it in the process, and hugged the thin pillow tightly against her chest. It took her a few seconds to realise she was acting like a stupid muppet while not even knowing why. She threw the pillow away in disgust just as Bernard swung through her window. It hit him on the chest.

“Though I’m grateful you didn’t, one usually uses throwing knives and not an inoffensive pillow,” he said calmly. “I saw your opened window when I arrived. I wanted to make sure you were fine and not doing something you should not like being out in the city.”

She sat up and fixed her gaze to her feet. Did he saw her enter her room? Had he seen her with Ned? Would he bury her in years upon years of chores back home or worst, forbid her from ever meeting with the young man again? The silence in the room stretched uncomfortably. Bernard was not only an unnaturally patient man but had that uncanny ability to divine her thoughts and, right now, most of them were centred on Ned Wynert. It was unsettling how much he occupied her mind after having met him but very recently.

“I was suffocating,” she finally whispered. She hated to lie to her mentor but the alternative was just not thinkable. “I thought opening the window would help but New York is not like Davenport. There is so much noise and activities.” Hearing him sigh softly, Temperance knew he had accepted her explanation. It made her feel wretched to have so misguided him.

“I’m sorry, child. I can imagine how you hate being stuck in this small room. I was planning on taking you to a bookstore in two or three days time but, if you want, we could go tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure you a good book would make your time cooped in here more bearable while I prowl the streets.”

She knew he was offering her what could only be perceived as an olive’s branch. Still, if she jumped on it with too much enthusiasm, he would start to suspect something. She wanted to try and keep the coming meeting with Ned a secret for as long as she could. The best solution was to try and convince Bernard she did not want to be left alone even though it was exactly what she was hoping for. It was a ploy of deception, one she had learnt years ago though she did not want to overly think about why she was knowledgeable of such tactics and especially not about who had taught them to her.

“You do know I would love nothing more than books but, mentor, going with you while you prowl is too good a training opportunity to pass up!” she argued.

“Perhaps but it’s too soon…” She jumped from the bed with a huff, one she did not have to feign.

“No it is not! I am ready! I know I can carry out missions if you would only allow me to prove it to you!” For a moment, Temperance thought she had convinced Bernard. She would have forgo her meeting with Ned for the chance to further her training despite how much she wanted to see the young man again. But, in the end, her mentor predictably shook his head.

“We’ll get you some books tomorrow. Perhaps after you’ve…” He stopped and briefly closed his eyes. After she what? Temperance was confused. Had they not come here to meet with one of his trade clients and to get some special supplies not found in other cities? “Perhaps after everything we’ve come here to do is done but not before,” he finally continued. She knew he had meant to say something else, something concerning her. She parted her lips to ask him about it but he gave her an unusually stern look. “This conversation is finished, young initiate! Now best you get yourself in bed. It’s late. New York might not need sleep but you do. Good night.”

She mumbled a ‘good night’ at his retreating back. She did not understand why he had been so very curt with her.

Reluctantly shrugging out of her clothes, she took her time getting ready for bed. She knew what would happen while wishing she could stop it. Every night it was the same. Laying down in bed, her gaze riveted to the ceiling, Temperance filled her mind with thoughts of Ned, his appearance, his voice, the feeling of his hand holding hers. Much too soon, her eyes closed and, despite fervently thinking of the young man, sleep brought her back to that room, that dreadful room in London.


End file.
